


harley keener knows toasted

by floweryfran



Series: it is you i love more than anyone [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Ben Parker Lives, Ben Parker is a good dad, Ben Parker is so cool, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Harley Keener & Peter Parker Friendship, Harley Keener Needs a Hug, Harley Keener Whump, Harley Keener is Tony Stark's Adopted Child, Harley Keener is a Good Bro, Harley Keener is delirious as fuck though, Harley Keener-centric, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, IronDad and SpiderSon, Irondad, Marijuana, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is delirious, Peter Parker is high, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Harley Keener's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, based entirely on my own escapades and errors, consensual drug taking, everyone holds hands because i love affection and so do they, irondad and spider-son, partaking in the marijuana, poor kid, this is mostly sweet but harley is sick both times lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: Harley Keener has been quaintly, colloquially high quite a few times, but he has been brick-clobbered, piss-puddled, stoned-as-the-Lord-intended exactly twice in his life.Both times, he has found himself inexplicably in the presence of Ben Parker.Peter is there too, of course, but that’s expected. Peter’s always there, all the time, for everything that has ever happened over the past—seven? Seven months since Harley moved into Tony Stark’s sky-scraping Manhattan penthouse with his family trauma and his two guitars curling his shoulders and a plucky goddamn disposition smeared on his cheeks like warpaint.But Ben being there—that’s different. That’s special. Mostly because Ben is.
Relationships: Ben Parker & Harley Keener, Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, what a niche fucking duo that is
Series: it is you i love more than anyone [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676065
Comments: 54
Kudos: 255





	harley keener knows toasted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [live_fast_pet_dogs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_fast_pet_dogs/gifts).



> THIS IS A GIFT FOR ONE OF MY SWEETEST COMMENTERS EVER!!! my dear friend, live_fast_pet_dogs, has been here since the beginning of “a motley crew” and still makes my day with every comment. this is for you, pal, as you requested it and i live to serve you and you alone ;-) 
> 
> hey this is a part of my ben lives series! no need to read others to get this -- it's pretty self-explanatory: canon, just with may having died rather than ben.
> 
> also a warning -- this entire story takes place with peter and harley (aged 17 and 18 respectively and still in high school) rather stoned so if that bothers you feel free to skip this one! ALSO, there's puke in the second half, but it's not described in detail. 
> 
> it's really just them being goofy for like 3.6k words. all adult reactions to said stonedness are positive since they are either done responsibly or an adult is contacted the second things seem dicey, if that matters to anyone as well!

Harley Keener has been quaintly, colloquially high quite a few times, but he has been brick-clobbered, piss-puddled, stoned-as-the-Lord-intended exactly twice in his life. 

Both times, he has found himself inexplicably in the presence of Ben Parker. 

Peter is there too, of course, but that’s expected. Peter’s always there, all the time, for everything that has ever happened over the past—seven? Seven months since Harley moved into Tony Stark’s sky-scraping Manhattan penthouse with his family trauma and his two guitars curling his shoulders and a plucky goddamn disposition smeared on his cheeks like warpaint. 

But Ben being there—that’s different. That’s special. Mostly because Ben is.

\---

“What kind of foooools,” says Harley. Peter is hanging upside down off the top bunk, looking right at Harley, his hair dangling into his eyes.

“Stupid fools,” says Peter. “We done goofed.”

“We done did,” Harley agrees. He tries to nod, but his entire body jolts in a sharp twitch. He’s not so good at this yet, he hasn’t acquired his—sea legs. “Shit,” he says. “I must pee. I simply must.”

“Go, dude,” says Peter.

“I’m sure gonna try.” Harley turns so his feet hit the floor. It feels like he’s got silly bands for knees. Just—loose bundles of silly bands, knotted between a twelve-year-old’s fingers, and they’re his kneecaps now, except they don’t do a very good job of being kneecaps because they’re silly bands.

Harley makes it to the bathroom. He thinks he’s actually handling it all outstandingly well, until he goes to close the toilet seat and the rim slips through his jelly worm fingers. And then he looks at himself in the mirror at the sink and he thinks _oh no_ because he looks like he’s actively plummeting through space time while also absolutely boggled and possibly sleep-deprived or mildly malnourished or something because he can’t remember his cheekbones looking like that or his eye sockets being three feet deep. A yard stick. In each eyeball. 

He goes back to Peter’s room and crawls onto the bottom bunk. It takes him a minute to realize Peter has moved there himself, and they are now shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip along the length of the mattress. Harley is literally sinking through the sheets, he can practically feel the floorboards digging into his tailbone. His eyeballs hurt. He thinks they’re swelling. His mouth tastes like the sugar at the bottom of the box of Frosted Flakes but not in a good way.

“I am dying, Egypt,” Harley mumbles, “dying.”

“Okay, Antony,” Peter says, just as flat, just as boggled. _“Shir la-ma-alos, eso aynai el he-horim, may-ayin yovo ezri.”_

“What are you even saying.”

“... Last rites.”

“Jesus flippin’ Christmas.” A moment. Harley feels like his whole body is rolling side to side. “Peter. Blinking is scary.”

“Really?” says Peter. Another long moment, at the end of which Peter bounces slightly, the mattress rocking under them. “Shit. The blink wasn’t scary but the dark was.”

“You scared of the dark?” Harley asks.

“Mhm,” says Peter. “I… it’s, umm, heavy.”

“It _is_ heavy,” Harley says, pushing his elbows under him, wedging himself halfway to a seated position. His shoulders are wimpy and he falls, the back of his head bouncing, his entire body jolting in a wince. Rubber bands, he’s all ants crawling and, like, a sand avalanche down into a pool of bubble juice. 

“Bad things happen in the dark,” Peter says. 

“The worst things,” Harley agrees. His tongue is _enormous,_ holy shit.

“Um,” says Peter. His hand flails across the surface of the sheets until it finds Harley’s, to which it clings. Harley can feel every grain and divet in Peter’s skin, the fold of their palms pressed together. They’re both clammy. 

“Hey, that’s okay,” Harley says, “this, the holdy hands, this is… good, it’s good, Petey. Pumpkin pie.”

Peter sniffles. “Wow,” he says. “Wow, woooah.”

“Woah what, buddy? Booboo? Bubba two: electric boogaloo?”

“I can feel your blood in your hand. Moving and stuff.”

“Wow. Good for my blood. Moving and stuff. S’impressive.”

“Mhm.” Peter sniffles again. “I’m so thirsty. Should I ask Ben for water?”

“Sure,” Harley says. 

Peter yells, “Beeeeen.”

Harley is struck. “Wait, wait, he’s totally gonna know.”

Peter’s head turns towards Harley’s and his eyes are hilariously bright fucking red, his nose and stupid ears pink with flush, his hair like a rat’s nest. “Shit,” he says.

The door opens a crack and Ben peers in, all tall and muscle-y and scruffy with his big hazel eyes and—what? What? Harley needs to remove his brain right now and leave it in a pot like noodles to be prodded at with chopsticks. 

“Hey,” Ben says. The understanding hits him so fast that he gets visible whiplash from it—the same type of surprise as backwash dregs at the bottom of a water bottle. “Are you guys stoned?” he says, knuckling his eyes in mild disbelief.

“Ben,” says Peter, and he shapes the word so carefully that Harley can practically see it floating in the air. “My mouth. Is the Shara—the Saaaa—”

“Sahara,” Harley supplies.

“That. Desert. Sandy—big sandy place, hyperarid, moisture deficit.”

“So the answer to my question is yes,” Ben says, “you are, indeed, high.”

“Sorry,” Peter says morosely.

“I’m sorry too,” says Harley, and his eyes sting very suddenly. “We had an edible _each,_ a whole one. So sorry. Very much sorry.”

Ben’s face is soft. Harley doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression so soft and kind on a grown man. He’s definitely teary now.

“Aw, Harley,” says Ben. He’s not even weird about it. He’s such a cool guy. He perches on the edge of the bed and cuffs a hand around Harley’s ankle, and it sorta helps for some stupid reason because now Harley feels real. “I’m not mad. It’s just pot. And you did it at home, with an adult here, which is—safe.” Ben sounds a little like he’s convincing himself, too. “You guys are kids, you’re gonna experiment whether it gives me immense, enormous waves of panic or not.”

“Didn’t mean to panic you,” says Peter. “Just meant to…”

“Get high,” Ben supplies. “And you did. And we’re all okay. Even you two Flat Stanley looking goofballs over here. You’re okay.”

“I feel like the kids in the Gogurt commercial,” says Harley. He does not elaborate.

“I got high a bunch in college,” says Ben, “because I had a skateboard and everybody who had a skateboard got high. It also—came with benefits such as being able to eat a whole pizza in one sitting and being incoherent while dealing with the lactose-sensitive repercussions of that… um, enlightened decision.”

“Cooool,” says Harley. 

“Ben, I love you,” says Peter. “You’re the best ever. You’re so great and nice.”

“I love you too, Ben,” says Harley. “Mister Ben. You and Tony are like my cool nervous foster dads and you’re so _nice_ and I love you guys. You always—make sure I’m good, and that’s so nice.”

“It’s basic human decency, buddy,” says Ben. He’s still smiling all fond. Harley wants to take a picture of it and tape it to the inside of his skull. Ben suddenly goes a little serious, scooting closer to the head of the bed. His hand taps against Harley’s shin. Harley doesn’t mind. “I know you’ve had a pretty shitty… uh, experience,” Ben tries, “with your dad being, like, an epic prick—am I allowed to say that? Sorry. Anyway. I, um,” Harley knows exactly where Peter got his stuttering, unsure sweetness from, “I hope you know that I’m, ah, here for you, whenever you need me. For whatever. Okay?”

Harley is still crying a little. “Okay thanks I love you,” he says. “I’m gonna have a heart attack from how much I love you guys.”

“I won’t let you,” says Peter, his free arm going straight up into the air and then dropping loose onto his chest with a bounce. “I’ll stop it from happening. I’ll punch you right in the heart.”

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame,” Harley warbles. “You give love—”

“A bad name,” Ben and Peter join in.

“Family sing-along,” Peter mumbles. “Someone call Tony. He sings real good. Hey, can I have a Snapple?”

“Oh shit,” says Ben. “Totally forgot to get you guys a drink. Do you want snacks too?”

Peter and Harley’s stomachs howl in tandem. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Ben. “Chateau Benjamin is open for business,” he says in a terrible French-ish accent. 

“I’ll take a cheeto,” says Peter.

“Just one?” says Ben.

“Hmm. Nooo, maybe, like, a couple. No, maybe, like, a hundred.”

“One bag of cheetos, coming up. And for the monsieur on your left?”

A beat. Peter squeezes his hand. Harley jumps. He had forgotten they were holding hands. Aw. 

“Harley,” Peter says. “You’re the mon-sewer on my left. What snack do you want?”

“Ooh,” says Harley. “A pretzel.”

A moment. “Just one?” says Ben amusedly.

“Like,” Harley knocks his toes together and his legs are angry paper clip chains. “Three.”

“And to drink, good sir?”

“Mmm, jus’ water. Thank you very, very much.”

“Of course,” says Ben. He stands. “Be right back.” He leaves.

Peter and Harley turn back towards each other. “Dude,” Peter says. Then he snorts. Then he really starts to laugh.

“Hey,” says Harley. His ear is folded uncomfortably under his head and his glasses are completely askew. “What. That’s rude. My self-image is very delicate.”

“You just look so sleepy,” says Peter, and another errant snort slips out. “Your eyes look like we took an apple-corer to your face. Just poked two holes out and stuck a pair of glasses on top. Two piss holes in the snow.”

“My feelings,” Harley mourns. “I’m wounded. I have scary eyes. Nooo, I have a complex about them now.”

Peter prods him with his big toe. “Nah, looks good,” he says, “even though you look goofy. Same way you say my ears are stupid but you like ‘em anyway.”

Harley grumbles unintelligibly. 

“‘Sides,” Peter continues. “Mostly I’m just mostly worried that you’re not sleepin’.”

“I’m sleepin’,” Harley says. “Look.” He shuts his eyes and pretends to snore.

“Fuck you,” Peter says. “That’s not even funny.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be funny. Can’t I say something without it being a joke?”

“I dunno, can you?”

“I’m gonna piss on your bed. Then we’ll see who's got…” Harley lifts the hand he’s got clenching Peter’s and shakes the knotted ball of their fingers, “piss holes.”

“I’ll get you a diaper first. Your pee won’t ever touch my sheets. Constant vigilance.”

“You suck so bad.”

“Boooo.”

The door opens back up and Ben comes in, a glass in each hand and bowls of snacks balanced in the bend of his arms. “Order up,” he says.

“Ben,” says Peter, sitting up like he’s been raised from the dead, “I owe you my life seven times over.”

“Just seven?” says Ben. “Gee. Coulda’ sworn it was more than that.” He passes the snacks out and Harley sucks down the water so fast that he’s almost afraid he’s going to drown himself. Wouldn’t that be a way to go. 

Ben says, “Okay, I’ll stop dadding now.” 

Peter says, “You’re the best at dadding, though. Best dad ever award goes to.”

“Ben Parker,” Harley says. “Woo, get the confetti.”

“Streamers,” Peter says around a mouthful of cheetos.

“Whole shebang,” Harley agrees.

Ben’s nose is wrinkled and his cheeks and ears red the same way Peter flushes. “You flatter me.”

“A mensch,” Peter declares.

“La cheim,” says Harley.

Peter turns and squints at him. “You’re… too goyish for that.”

Harley shoves a handful of pretzel sticks in his mouth.

Ben says awkwardly, “I’m gonna, um. Bolt, but I’ll leave the door open? Just in case you need me?”

Peter blows kisses at Ben and Harley waves like he’s on the dock and Ben is floating away on the Titanic.

Ben snorts and leaves with a little salute.

“I’m adopting Ben as my dad,” says Harley. “Hey, should we set Ben and Tony up?”

“Did you _forget_ Pepper?”

“Oh my god, Pepper. Never mind, I want her to adopt me alone, just Pepper.”

“Should I be offended for Ben?”

“Oh my god, Ben. Adopt me.”

_“_ _Zine beh-sechel,”_ Peter says.

Harley flops back onto the pillows and says, with the sort of fond, put-upon nature one only feels inclined to present in the presence of the Parker boys, “Oy vey.”

\---

“And we thought we fucked up last time,” says Peter, impressed, as Harley retches into the bathtub, the sound of him choking echoing around them. He’s rubbing a hand up and down Harley’s spine but Harley isn’t even cemented enough into his body to respond. “Ben is gonna come pick us up. I’m not going to lie to you, Tony is probably also coming, because he is a nervous wreck at—the best of times, so. I assume that’s what he’s like in the worst of ‘em. Which is now. This is, like, the end of days.”

“Peter,” Harley croaks miserably.

“Yeah? Dude?”

“Please. Shut up.” His head is pirouetting. Peter’s voice is giving him agita. The last two Jaegerbombs were a—very bad idea, a very bad one indeed. He rests his elbow on the edge of the bathtub and it slips, his chin falling until Peter grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him backwards, which just has him retching again. Peter holds him upright as he spits bile towards the drain.

“Puke… in my nose,” Harley says.

“Dude,” Peter says sympathetically.

A harsh knock on the door. 

“God?” says Harley.

“No, Tony,” says the voice.

“Oh, damn,” says Harley as Peter opens the door a crack and Tony slithers in. It’s the nature of a Brooklyn house party that no one notices actual Tony Stark come inside. Or maybe it’s the stained hoodie and grey beanie Tony is wearing, because he really is a child. 

Harley dives back for the drain and pukes up his stomach, his large intestine, and his kidney, probably. His poor liver. 

“He’s so crossed,” says Peter.

“Are you?” Tony asks.

“Yes, _yes,_ but, like, I have only puked once, so really I’m winning.”

“Winning?” Harley says.

“Shush, Spudnik,” says Tony, prodding him with a toe. Tony kneels down beside him and rests his arm on the rim of the bathtub in a mirror of Harley’s position. He raises his other hand and knocks a knuckle gently on Harley’s temple. “Anyone home?” he says.

“No,” Harley says. He then leans back over the rim of the tub, his chin pressing against the inner porcelain.

The world is spinning so fast and he really can’t hang on. He closes his eyes and claws his fingernails on the tiles, scrambling for purchase. 

“I’m actually freaking out,” Tony says. “Where is Ben. He’s my rock, my island, as Simon and Garfunkel would say. I need him to anchor me, to keep me sane, he’s my candle in the window on a cold dark winter’s night.”

“Please, st—why are you speaking in song lyrics? Why are you so creepy about my uncle, huh? What the fuck, man?”

“I guess I just can’t fight this feeling anymore,” Tony says. Harley’s ears are ringing a little. He’s literally being thrown around the room, like there’s an earthquake going on or something, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to puke again so he leans over and lets the burn overtake his throat, his sinuses, and he’s definitely got tears slipping out of his eyes but he’s too weak to even wipe them away.

“I’m such a pussy,” he says mournfully.

“No,” says Tony, “no, no, you just overdid. It. How much did you overdo it, Gamma Alpha Vodka?”

“Uhghnh,” Harley says.

“He had, like, a full-to-the-brim cup of wine and then two shots of Tito’s and then some red stuff. And four hits off someone’s bowl.”

“Red stuff?” Tony repeats. “Like, jungle juice?”

“Jaeger,” Harley mumbles pitifully.

“Oh, you fool,” Tony says. “Okay, so you just got the spins, that’s not—you didn’t drink world-endingly high amounts of alcohol, and this little blood test I just pricked you with is saying the weed wasn’t tainted—”

“You took a blood test on him?” Peter says loudly. “Dude.”

“Dude,” Tony says back. Harley’s head is _pounding._ “What did you expect? I had two panic attacks on the way here. FRIDAY had to go auto-pilot to fly the suit for me. She slipped me a needle of anti-anxieties in the ass to slow my heart rate. I took a needle in the ass for you two little shits.”

“Knock knock,” says another voice while a much gentler pair of knuckles taps the door. 

“Ben,” Harley says, relieved. Tony gives him anxiety, but Ben smoothes shit.

“I brought Pedialyte because he’s probably dehydrated,” says Ben. “Um, here, Harley, I’m gonna move your leg, pal—” and suddenly Ben is there, smelling like those heady _sea breeze_ body washes and a little bit like sweat, bending the leg Harley has spread straight out parallel to the edge of the tub so his foot is flat on the tile. “Might help ground you from the spins,” Ben says. The floor is a blur of ochre tile and the cabinets are smudges of brown and Peter is just a blue smear of paint and he can’t slow enough to see anymore. His jaw is prickling, pins and needles, and his ears ache. He doesn’t like this at all.

Ben’s shaking the purple bottle of Pedialyte by the time Harley gets his head to turn towards him. He feels like his bottom eyelids have little hooks on them, and the hooks are carrying cinder blocks, and his eyelids are gonna rip right off from the weight. Tony is still crowding him because Tony has absolutely no sense of personal space and Harley can’t even look at him, at any of them, can’t make himself focus, everything is swooping and it’s getting worse, worse, really, and he’s miserable and his eyes are burning and his throat already ached but now it’s going all tight like he’s going to _cry,_ and he already cries enough as it is, like, twice a week at least, but this is the _worst._

He sniffles. 

“Aw, no—”

“Harley, aw, kid—”

“Dude, my dude, nooo—”

“Sorry,” Harley says. “Sorry. Gimme a second, I’ll—stop.”

He’s got a big hand on his back and he thinks it’s Ben’s and a second hand gripping his own and he knows from the calluses it’s Tony’s and that means it’s Peter’s chin hooked over his shoulder and they’re all leaning near the tub, the tub Harley has been _puking into,_ and Harley is a mess. He’s almost completely ripped from reality, this is ridiculous, seriously, what the hell.

It’s blurring, now. Not just spinning, not just tossing him, it’s washing-machine-spinning him in circles and he’s lilting and he’s lost. 

Through the blur he holds a bag under his chin and gets into Ben’s car and ends up at Tony’s penthouse in the clouds, he knows because the bathroom floor is this fancy painted terracotta tile, and he falls back into himself, rocking side to side instead of rolling over his ass, slack-jawed and swollen-eyed and leaning loosely over the toilet rim. 

The first thing he registers is that Ben still has a hand on his back, rubbing these light, little circles. Harley peers over at him and Ben offers him a soft smile, his beard all scruffy and more grown in than Harley has ever seen it. “Hey, welcome back,” Ben says, and he’s always so gentle but it still makes Harley want to crack right through the center. 

“Hi,” Harley offers, scratchily. He winces as the sharp pain cuts through his throat. Like gurgling razor blades. 

Ben hands him the Pedialyte. Harley takes a little sip. It turns his stomach, but he swallows, and swallows, and hopes it’ll stay down. 

“Tony’s with Peter in his bedroom,” Ben says, as if he’s read Harley’s mind. “He started freaking out again so I traded off with him. S’fine; I’m used to cleaning up puke from Peter already. What’s another kid to take care of?”

Ben says things like that sometimes. Just alluded things. He’s not like Tony, who has been so loud and brash about his love ever since the second Harley woke him during a screaming nightmare of his father chasing him down the street in his truck and held him by the wrist to keep him sitting on the edge of his bed until he fell back to sleep. Now Tony marches around saying _my kids this_ and _my kids that_ and _my annoying rat children, what am I supposed to do with them._

Ben just says stuff like _what’s another kid?_ and _it’s no trouble to grab you too, Harley_ and _I’m, ah, here for you, whenever you need me._

It’s like having divorced dads and trading back and forth between houses except Tony flirts with Ben so much more than any person probably flirts with their ex.

Harley’s chest swells quite suddenly with loud, ferocious affection for both Ben and Tony, who have done more for him in months than his pa did for him in years, and who never stop surprising him with just how deep the reservoirs carved into their chests run—just how much space they’ve got to wade in right around their hearts.

“Hey,” Harley says tightly. His brain can’t really think of things to say right now. He’s still drunk, god, and he’s still trembling, he can feel it in his fingers, so he just reaches out and grabs Ben Parker’s hand and hangs on, and he thinks Ben gets it, sees it in his eyes, how glad he is to feel wanted.

Ben gives him a soft smile, and Harley takes it, stinking of bile and mortified and, more than anything, glad to have this.

**Author's Note:**

> Zine beh-sechel -- you're fucking my brain  
> the prayer was found at this link: https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/364288/jewish/Jewish-Prayers-for-the-Final-Moments-of-Life.htm
> 
> my friends! let me know what you thought! leave me some comments! some kudos! i love you! every single one!
> 
> more stuff is in the works i promise xoxo
> 
> ps im moderating comments here because i've been getting some sorta weird ones that (probably accidentally, idk, im very fragile) hurt my feelings but i promise 99.99% of comments are very much appreciated so please comment anyway i love love love talking to you all !!! <333
> 
> EDIT LMAO THESE ARE BOTH BASED ON PERSONAL EXPERIENCES RIP MY DUMB ASS


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